


Hubris and Humility and Headless Corpses

by RuthlesslyEfficient



Category: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016), Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Jane Austen & Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: BRAAAIINS, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/M, It's a love story, based on the movie but can apply to the book too, but just with zombies, canon-typical zombies, what's going on in your brain Fitzwilliam Darcy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuthlesslyEfficient/pseuds/RuthlesslyEfficient
Summary: "Darcy found himself entranced by the sight of Miss Elizabeth Bennet in battle, her blades flashing, her face utterly focused. It wasn't until he had spilled out his thoughts to his friend, staring at her in awe, that he realized he may be in trouble. "How Darcy falls in love, fails at it, and then figures it out.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 133





	Hubris and Humility and Headless Corpses

Darcy wasn't blind. He noticed right away that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was uncommonly pretty (though he denied it when Bingley said so). Still, he'd met many beautiful women. It wasn't her appearance that caught him. 

It was her fighting. 

He found himself entranced by the sight of her in battle, her blades flashing, her face utterly focused. It wasn't until he had spilled out his thoughts to his friend, staring at her in awe, that he realized he may be in trouble. 

\-----

Miss Bennet was obviously distressed as she came to her sister's aid. And Darcy empathized -- he truly did. He understood more than most worrying for one's family. 

But if the other Miss Bennet had been infected, Darcy would do what he had been trained to do. He had no choice. 

She caught his flies, picking them from the air one by one. She glared at him when she assured the doctor that there was no question her sister had not been bitten -- as if it was his fault that she was in such a state. 

She handed the dead flies back to him. Silently, he took them, though he'd have ignored the gesture from any other living person. Why was he constantly giving her the advantage over him? 

Later, she appeared in the drawing room as he sat with the Bingleys. She challenged Caroline Bingley to a fight, and he couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising. He'd very much like to witness such a thing. He kept this thought to himself. 

She walked out of the room after insulting essentially everyone in it, most notably him, and the thought came to his mind again: He was definitely in trouble. 

\----

He thought he'd have some respite when he retreated to Rosings to see his aunt, but the damn Miss Bennet appeared there, as well, alongside her insufferable cousin and his rather dull but well-mannered fiancée. 

Elizabeth -- Miss Bennet, he reminded himself -- was straightforward as she pled George's cause. Darcy found himself grating his teeth at George's earnest proposal and Miss Bennet's approval. George was not wrong when he said they faced overwhelming odds. After all, all men died, and they did it so very easily. And yet he found himself agreeing with his aunt. An alliance with the undead could never hold. He would rather die fighting than be caught unawares when it inevitably broke. 

Miss Bennet had sharp words for him as he dismissed George. He did not dispute them. 

\----

She ensnared his thoughts and he could not rid them of her. He stayed awake late, hoping he could train the emotions out or at least himself into exhaustion.

And yet the longer he practiced, the less controlled he became, his thoughts of her remaining stubbornly in his mind. Finally, he dropped his sword on the grass and sat down next to it, the dew seeping quickly into his trousers. He remained deadlocked between his damnable heart and his judgement. His feelings drew him to her despite the deficiencies of her situation. He had tried in vain to excise these feelings, and yet this had proved impossible. Each time his sense listed a reason she was not suitable, he found himself thinking of the strength of her arm, the fire of her eye, the sharpness of her wit and setting such things above every impediment. 

It appeared, he finally concluded, that there was only one option before him, since he was unable to dissuade himself. He would ask her to marry him. She would accept -- for surely her mother would disown her if she rejected someone of his situation, he thought with a derisive snort -- and then, at last, he would be settled, at least. 

He would go in the morning to the parsonage, he resolved. 

\----

She rebuffed him in the harshest terms. He found himself somewhat stunned -- not only at her rejection, but also at her utter lack of regard. She attacked him viciously, obviously livid. He defended himself, even picking up the discarded poker as his own ire was peaked, but his heart was not in the fight. He was distracted more than once by the shape of her body against him, by the heaving of her breast. 

He left, as he told her, ashamed of his feelings. Because she hated him and he found he loved her anyway. 

He fled the parsonage, seeking refuge behind the small adjacent carriage house to gather himself. He leaned back against it, letting his head rest against the cool stone. 

He was, he thought once more, in very serious trouble. Because surely he could never take anyone as his wife but her and she would not have him. 

\-----

He did the only thing that seemed to make sense: He made for the battle for London, hoping to leave his troubles behind in a sea of beheaded undead. 

This plan proved unsuccessful. Even as he cut down zombie after zombie, Elizabeth distracted him. Their argument and fight replayed over and over in his mind. He found himself reconsidering nearly every action he'd taken since he'd met her. Who was he, he asked himself, to presume her sister's intentions (her mother's aside)? Who was he to judge for Bingley what would lead to happiness? And what hubris he'd had as he'd asked her to be his bride. He'd started by insulting her, as if that should entice her to accept him. And when he'd knelt in what was meant to be a gesture of humility, he'd practically demanded she marry him. It was no wonder, he thought to himself, that she had spurned him. 

He had been so very, very wrong. He was miserable and it was entirely of his own doing. 

Bingley arrived soon enough, looking miserable as well and thereby doubling Darcy's guilt. 

And yet, Elizabeth obviously did not know the truth of Wickham's betrayal. Surely this mattered. 

Finally, as he took his rest one night far back from the front lines, he turned to his pen. He stared at the paper before him for several long minutes before finally dipping the pen in the inkwell and setting it to the paper, scratching out carefully, "Dear Miss Elizabeth Bennet," and refusing to let his hand shake. His thoughts started slowly, but then poured out swiftly and more swiftly still. He managed an apology and he thought it a decent one. He doubted it would change her so rightly formed opinion of him, but it was all he could offer. 

A scream startled him from his writing, and he realized it was one of the nurses in the infirmary tent. In a moment, his katana was in his hand and he rushed toward the hubbub, without his cravat and the front of his shirt hanging open. 

But by the time he arrived at the tent, the drama was over. A wounded soldier had died and turned suddenly and then lunged for a young and untested nurse. All the nurses were armed, as they faced such danger constantly dealing with those so close to death, and another of them quickly dispatched the unfortunate. 

It reminded him of the danger. He turned his gaze toward London. He could not see the fighting from here nor hear it, but he knew it raged on still.

He returned to his tent and took up his pen again. What had passed between them was nothing; he must warn Elizabeth of what was coming. 

\----

She appeared on the battlefield. He was stunned at the sight of her, her dark curls piled atop her head, her trim waist displayed by her corset and framed by her coat. Her eyes bright with the kill. 

She explained her predicament, and he found he had resolved himself to a course of action almost before it had presented itself. He lied to her and held his tongue as she became distraught. She would not look at him, refusing to show him such weakness directly. He studied her profile carefully, for he was not confident of his return from the mission he had assigned himself. The straight line of her nose, the high bone of her cheek, the softness of her lip, the long, unblemished curve of her neck. He wished to kiss her, but knew he was not welcome. He gathered his control and his courage, lied to her again, and made for St. Lazarus. 

\----

Again, she appeared like a Fury in his moment of need. He gazed up at her, magnificent atop her white horse, still slightly stunned from the near-strangling. "Get up," she demanded. "We must flee." 

Her tone shook him to action. He climbed onto the horse behind her, telling her, "Lydia has already gone." 

"I know," she said shortly, kicking the horse into a gallop. 

She knew? And yet she had come for him. Her honor was unimpeachable. Dear God, he thought as he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight as they raced for the bridge, raced against the zombies and the rising tide, here he was managing to fall even more in love with her even though their lives were very likely at an end.

He bent himself over her as the bridge exploded behind them, hoping to shield her from debris. Then the explosives in front of them lit, and he curled himself around her even more tightly as a concussion of air and then heat assaulted them, throwing them from the horse and apart. 

The thought floated through Darcy's mind that they were in trouble. 

\-----

It was dark and he could not move. 

"Ah," he thought to himself calmly. "I suppose now I am dead." 

But no. Because also he was cold and surely the dead did not feel the cold. Still, he could not work out how to move his arms or legs or open his eyes. 

From a long way away, or perhaps as from under water, he heard the sound of a woman crying. Elizabeth, he realized. She was wounded! Get up, Darcy, damn you. Get up. She needs you. He could not. Then a brush against his face. Her cheek, her hair, some hazy part of him deduced. Ah. That was nice. Perhaps she was not hurt. She was upset, though. He must comfort her. Still his eyes would not open, his body would not obey his commands. 

Through the river between them, her voice: "From the first moment I beheld you, my heart was irrevocably gone." 

It… it could not be. She could not mean to him. She could not mean she loved him. Not after all the ill he had done her and her sister. And yet… Something soft against his face, his mouth. Hope sparked in his chest. Open your eyes, Darcy. Open your eyes and press your lips to hers. 

He could not. Insensibility overtook him once more.

\----

The next several days were strange. Things sometimes filtered in through the blackness surrounding him. Cold. Discomfort. Warmth. Once or twice, he felt the softness of a woman's hand against his cheek and neared the surface. 

He clung to the memory of her silken hair against his face, her trembling voice, her velvety lips. Live, Darcy, he insisted in the moments when it felt like he would never wake. Live, if only to beg her one more time to be yours.

\----

He lived.

\----

He awoke -- finally, truly awoke -- in a bed at Pemberly. The blankets were warm and he was comfortable, though he felt weak and his head ached. 

His eyes crawled to the side, where he could heard soft, unbothered breathing. He dared to hope for a moment -- but no. It was Bingley. Of course. It would be unseemly for Elizabeth to attend him in his sickroom. 

"Charles," he croaked, his voice even raspier than usual with thirst. His friend's head snapped up from the book he was reading. 

"Darcy!" Bingley exclaimed, and Darcy winced at the volume. "Good God! We'd nearly thought you a lost cause! Here, let me fetch you some water." 

Darcy accepted the water that Bingley held to his lips gratefully, sipping until his throat felt something close to normal. 

"Miss Bennet?" was the first thing he asked. 

"Is absolutely fine," Bingley assured him. 

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. 

"All five of the Misses Bennet, in fact, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, are safe and well at Rosings, my morning post informed me," Bingley continued. "Your sister, as well. I insisted she take refuge there while there was still a chance that you... That you may..." he trailed off. "Well, anyway. She was a devil to expel. I believe it was only the coaxing of your cousin that convinced her." 

"How long?" Darcy asked next. 

"You've been more or less unconscious for six days," Bingley told him, his expression grave. "I'll ring for the physician. He's been in residence while you're unwell." 

Darcy simply nodded. 

\----

It was another three days before the physician deemed him well enough to leave his bed. As he convalesced, he took letters from the front on the state of the canal. For now, it seemed, the zombies could not cross it and had ceased trying to do so. But with Wickham still presumably alive -- of sorts -- Darcy knew it would not hold forever. 

He spent much of his time contemplating Elizabeth -- no change there, he thought to himself with a derisive snort. He feared to try again, and yet his heart called for him to do so. 

But first, he must right his wrongs. 

\-----

Darcy brushed his lips over Elizabeth's, then along her cheek. She smiled brilliantly and it made him slant his mouth over hers again, kissing her more deeply than he had at first. His heart was drumming in his chest, but his mind went pleasantly blank when their lips met. 

Finally, sensing that he'd find himself in an awkward predicament if he continued, Darcy pulled his mouth from hers. He kissed her forehead gently and then her hair. He meant to relinquish her, but found himself unable. She seemed to agree, leaving her arms around his neck as she settled her head against his chest, sighing happily. 

"You were wrong about one thing," she told him softly. 

"And what is that, my dear?" he asked. 

"My feelings for you have not changed." His entire body tensed and he made to pull away, but she clutched at him. "No, no, my darling Mr. Darcy," she said, earnest eyes looking up at him. "I only mean that my feelings have not changed because I have loved you since the assembly at Meryton. It was just that I was angry with you for a time." 

He was surprised, but his eyes softened and he relaxed against her. "Ah. Well then. I shall endeavor to avoid your ire in the years to come." 

She giggled. He did not believe he had ever heard her make the sound before. It was charming. "I should hope so," she said. 

"Although," she added thoughtfully. "If you'd asked that way the first time, I'd have been too swept off my feet to decline, regardless of my opinion of you." She kissed the corner of his mouth when it quirked up in a grin. 

The ladies were returning from the hall, Bingley beaming alongside a quietly pleased Miss Jane Bennet. They found Elizabeth pressed tightly to his side, holding his hand, and again erupted into chatter. Darcy simply looked down at Elizabeth, her smile glowing and her eyes sparkling, blind to all else. 


End file.
